A daughter of Heth

CHAPTER XX.

LETTERS FROM AIRLIE.

"Oh," said Coquette, as they walked along the winding path, with the beautiful scenery of the district gradually opening up before them, "I did get two letters for you, uncle, at Tarbert, and forgot all about them. Here they are; shall I read them?"

The two letters which she produced from, her pocket had the Airlie stamp on them; and Mr. Cassilis at once bade her do as she pleased. So she broke the seal of the first, and began to read aloud:

"'Honoured Sir and master in the Lord,—I tak up my pen to let ye know that I have been,'—what is this?" said Coquette.

The Minister took it from her, and continued himself:

"—that I have been stung. Atweel I wat no man ever heard me complain unnecessary-wise about my poseetion in life, which I accept with gratitude and humeelity from the Giver of all Good—to wit the Dispenser of all Mercies at present and to come; but I maun tak the leeberty o' saying, honoured Sir, that I cannot bide in this house any langer to be treated worse than the beast that perisheth. From the fingers to the elbows—and my face and neck likewise—am I covered wi' the venomous stings o' bees, and do suffer a pain grievous, and like unto the plagues which were put on the people of Egypt for their sins. Honoured Sir, I canna bear wi' they callants any longer, as I chanced upon one o' them laughing like to split, and am aware it was a skeein to inflict this wrong and injury upon me, which I howp will cause you to inquire into, and begging the favour of a reply to say when ye are coming back—and what sore punishment will be meeted out to them that richly deserve the same—I am, your humble and obedient servant in the Lord,

"ANDREW BOGUE."

"Can it be," said the Minister, when he had read this letter aloud, "can it be that those mischievous boys have conspired to set a lot of bees to sting him?"

Coquette looked somewhat frightened; but the Whaup observed, cheerfully—

"Indeed, sir, those brothers of mine are fearful. I have done my best with them to keep them out of mischief; but it is no use. And to go and set a bees' bike at an auld man——!"

The Whaup shook his head disconsolately. His brothers were incorrigible—even he had been compelled to desist from his efforts to improve them.

"Do you hear him?" said Coquette, in a low voice to Lord Earlshope. "And it was he himself who did plan all that about the bees, and got them, and put them in a bag."

"And then," said Earlshope, aloud, to the Whaup, "the worst of it is that they go and blame you for what they do themselves; so that the whole district has got to dread you, whereas you have been trying to put down these pranks."

The Whaup turned towards Lord Earlshope, and slowly winked one of his eyes. By this time the Minister had opened the other letter, and was perusing it in silence. It ran as follows:—

"Dear and Reverend Sir,—It behoves me to accomplish, or in other words to fulfil the promise which I, as an elder in your church, made to you, on your setting forth, to make you acquaint, or familiarise you with, the events and occurrences, the state of feeling, and general condition of this parish. Towards yourself, their spiritual governor, leader, and guide, the people do show themselves most loyal and friendly, hoping you will continue your voyages abroad to the benefiting of your health, and that you may be saved from the perils of the waters—or, as I might have said, from the dangers that encompass them who go down to the sea in ships. As for the young man who is to take your pulpit, God willing, next Sabbath, report speaks well of his forbears; but divers persons who have heard him in Arbroath, Greenock, and elsewhere, do fear that he is not severe enough in defining the lines and limits of doctrine, holding rather to the admonitory side, which does not give his hearers sufficient chance, or opportunity, to use a less pagan word, to get at his own stand-point, which is a grave, or, it might be said with safety, a serious matter; for whereas those ministers who have been long with us, and who have given proofs of their doctrinal soundness, may be permitted to deal more with reproof and exhortation, it is for the younger generation of preachers to declare themselves clearly and sharply, that the church universal may not be ensnared and entrapped in the dark, there being, I grieve to hear, a dangerous leaven of looseness in the colleges and other places where young men congregate, or, as I might say, come together. The only news of importance, besides this subject, which I have to communicate, is that Pensioner Lamont did once more, on the night of Tuesday, become most abnormal drunk, and did dance and play his fiddle in an uproarious and godless manner in the house of Mrs. Pettigrew; and likewise that Lauchie—who is vulgarly called Field Lauchie—Macintyre's wife's bairn has been visited with the rash, which I hope will be taken as a sign of the warning finger of Providence, and cause the said Lauchie to give over, or, as I may say, abandon, his abominable and reckless conduct of walking to the town of Ardrossan every Sabbath day, and remaining there until the evening, I fear in no good company. This, dear and reverend sir, from yours to command, ÆNEAS GILLESPIE."

"Good news from Airlie?" asked Lady Drum.

"Yes—in a manner, yes," replied the Minister, with dreamy eyes. It was a new thing for him to hear only the distant echo of his parish.

"Your boys seem to want their elder brother to control them?" continued Lady Drum.

"Yes," said the Minister. "He prevails on them to leave the Manse quiet when he is there, though it may be only to lead them into greater mischief elsewhere. But they will have to look after themselves now for the rest of the autumn and winter."

"Why?"

"Because Tom is returning to his studies at Glasgow," observed the Minister.

Coquette had been standing to watch some water-hens which, on the opposite bank, were scrambling about in the rushes, and she came up only in time to hear these last words.

"You are going to Glasgow?" she said to the Whaup.

"Yes," he replied, with some gravity. "I mean to work hard this winter."

"And you will not be at Airlie all the time?"

"Does that distress you?" he asked.

"Nobody but Leesiebess and her husband," said Coquette, wistfully. "It will not be pleasurable—the Manse—in the dark time of the winter, with the cold of the hill. But I am glad you do go. You will work hard; you will forget your games of mischief; you will come back more like a man; and when you tell me you have studied well, and have got—what is it called?—your certification, I will come out to meet you at the Manse, and I will have a wreath of laurel-leaves for you, and you will be the great hero of the hour."

"It is something to look forward to," said the Whaup, almost sadly. "And when I come back will you be just the same, Coquette?—as quiet and happy and pretty as you always are?"

"I do not know that I am quiet, or happy, or pretty, more than any one else," said Coquette; "but I hope I shall be always the same to you, if you come back in one year—two years—ten years."

The Whaup did not reply to that, but he said to himself: "If she would only wait two years! In two years' time I should have worked to some purpose, and I would come home and ask her to marry me."

All the rest of their walk along the pretty and picturesque bank he was restless and impatient in manner—speaking to nobody, thinking much. He cut with his stick at the rushes in the water or at the twigs of the hedge, as if they were the obstacles that lay in his way towards the beautiful goal he was dreaming of. At last he got into the yacht again and went below. When the others followed, some time after, they found him busy with his books.

Coquette went to him and said:

"Why do you read? Have I offended you? Are you angry with me?"

"No, no," he said, rising and going away; "you are a deal too kind towards me, and towards all those people who don't understand how good you are."

Coquette stood by in blank astonishment; she let him pass her and go up on deck without uttering a word.

By this time the Caroline was lying at anchor in Loch Crinan, and the afternoon was drawing on apace. The day had dulled somewhat, and far out among the western isles that lay along the horizon there was a faint, still mist that made them shadowy and vague. Nevertheless, the Whaup would have the skipper give him the pinnace for a run out in quest of the guillemot plumage that Coquette had desired; and when, indeed, that young lady appeared on deck, she beheld the tiny boat, with its spritsail catching a light breeze, running far out beyond the sharp island-rocks that crowd the entrance to the natural harbour.

"It is so small a boat to go out to sea," she said to Lord Earlshope, who was following the pinnace with his glass.

Meanwhile, the Whaup had stationed himself at the prow of the small craft, steadying himself with his gun as she began to dip to the waves; while all in front and around there opened out the great panorama of lochs and islands, between Luing and Scarba on the north, and the three dusky peaks of Jura in the south. The gloomy Sound of Corrievreckan was steeped in mist; and Dubhchamus Point was scarcely visible; but nearer at hand, in the middle of the grey and desolate sea, lay Maoile Rock, and Ris an Valle, with Ruisker and the Ledge apparently under the shadow of the Paps. The bright little boat, despite her ballast and her cargo, went lightly as a feather over the waves; and the Whaup kept his eyes alert. There were plenty of birds about—the solitary solan poised high in the air—the heron calling from out of the twilight that hung over the distant shores—gulls of every description, from the pretty kittiwake to the great black-winged depredator—but in vain he scanned the heaving plain of waves for the special object of his quest. At last, however, they heard the cry of the divers down in the south, and thither the small boat was directed. The sound came nearer and nearer—apparently there were dozens or hundreds of them all about—yet no feather of one of them could be seen. Then there was a swift rustle out beyond the boat—a dark moving line, rapidly crossing the waves—and the pink flame leapt from the two barrels of the Whaup's gun. The pinnace was put about, and run towards a certain dark speck that was seen floating on the waves; while at the same moment over all the west there broke a great and sudden fire of yellow—streaming down from the riven clouds upon the dusky grey of the sea. In this wild light the islands grew both dark and distant; and near at hand there was a glare on the water that dazzled the eyes and made all things look fantastic and strange. It lasted but for a moment. The clouds slowly closed again; the west grew grey and cold; over all the sea there fell the leaden-hued twilight; while the bow of the boat—going this way and that in search of the dead bird—seemed to move forward into the waste of waters like the nose of a retriever.

They picked up the bird—there was but one. The Whaup was not satisfied. They could still hear the distant calling, and so they stood out a bit farther to sea—none of them, perhaps, noticing how rapidly the darkness was descending.

"There is a squall coming," said the man at the tiller, looking far down into the south-west.

The Whaup saw nothing but a strangely black line along the misty horizon—a line of deep purple. He was unwilling to go back then. Besides, both sea and sky were sufficiently calm; and the coming breeze would just suffice to run them into Loch Crinan.

"We had better make for the yacht, sir," said the man nearest him. "It looks bad down there."

Unwilling as he was to give up, the Whaup perceived that the thin line of black had become a broader band. He was still looking far over the mystic plain of the waves towards that lurid streak, when he seemed to hear an unfamiliar sound in the air. It was not a distant sound, but apparently a muttering as of voices all around and in front, hoarse, and low, and ominous. And while he still stood watching, with a curiosity which dulled all sense of fear, the slow widening of the blackness across the sea, a puff of wind smote his cheek, and brought the message that those troubled voices of the waves were deepening into a roar. Near the boat the sea was comparatively calm, and the darkening sky was quite still; but it appeared as though a great circle were inclosing them, and that the advancing line of storm could be heard raging in the darkness without being itself visible. In the intense stillness that reigned around them, this great hoarse, deepening tumult of sounds found a strange echo; and then, while the men were making ready for the squall, the water in the immediate neighbourhood became powerfully agitated—a hissing of breaking waves was heard all around—then the first blow of the wind struck the boat as if with a hammer.

By this time the sail had been brailed up; and the tempest that now came roaring along the black surface of the sea smote nothing but spars and oars as it hurried the pinnace along with it. Running before the wind, and plunging into the great hollows of the waves, that seemed to be racing towards the shore, the light boat shipped but little water, except when a gust of wind drove the crest of a breaking wave across the rowers; but there came torrents of rain sweeping along with the gale; and presently they found themselves shut out from sight of land by the driving clouds. The Whaup still kept outlook at the bow; but he had long ago laid aside his gun.

It was now a question of making the entrance to the loch without running on the rocks with which it is studded; and as the boat rose and sank with the waves, and reeled and staggered under the tearing wind, the Whaup, dashing back the salt water from his eyes and mouth, and holding on to the prow, peered into the wild gloom ahead, and was near shouting joyously aloud from the mere excitement and mildness of the chase. It was a race with the waves; and the pinnace rolled and staggered down in a drunken fashion into huge black depths only to rise clear again on the hissing masses of foam; while wind and water alike—the black and riven sky, the plunging and foaming sea, and the great roaring gusts of the gale that came tearing up from the south—seemed sweeping onward for those dusky and jagged points which formed the nearest line of land.

Coquette was standing on deck, her one small hand clinging to the cold steel shrouds, while her face, terror-stricken and anxious, was fixed on the blackness of the storm that raged outside the troubled stillness of the harbour. Lord Earlshope begged her to go below from the fierce torrents of the rain; and when she paid no heed to him, he brought a heavy mantle, and covered her with it from head to foot. She spoke not a word; and only trembled slightly when the wind came in with a fierce cry from that angry warring of the elements that was going on beyond the islands.

The darkness fell fast; and yet as far as they could see there was no speck of a boat coming in from the wild and moving waste of grey. To the girl standing there and gazing out, it appeared as though the horizon of the other world—that mystic margin on which, in calmer moments, we seem to see the phantoms of those who have been taken from us passing in a mournful procession, speechless and cold-eyed, giving to us no sign of recognition—had come close and near, and might have withdrawn behind its shadowy folds all the traces of life which the sea held. Could it be that the black pall of death had fallen just beyond those gloomy islands, and hidden for ever from mortal eyes that handful of anxious men who had lately been struggling towards the shore? Was the bright young existence she had grown familiar with, and almost learned to love, now snatched away without one mute pressure of the hand to say farewell? She stood there as if in a dream; and the things that passed before her eyes had become spectral and ghastly. She scarcely knew that she heard voices. She clung to the steel ropes—there was something like a faint "hurrah!" wafted in with the tumult of the sea—there was the vision of a face gleaming red and joyous with the salt spray and the rain—and then she knew that she was sinking, with a sound as of the sea closing over her head.

CHAPTER XXI.

COQUETTE IS TROUBLED.

The gale blew hard all that evening; but towards midnight the sky cleared; and the large white moon rose wild and swift into the luminous violet vault, that was still crossed by ragged streaks of grey cloud hurrying over from the sea. All along the dark islands the mournful wash of the waves could be heard; and here, in the quiet of the bay, the wind brought a fresh and salt flavour with it, as it blew in gusts about, and swept onward to stir the birches and brackens of the hills. The Whaup sat up on deck with Lord Earlshope, who was smoking; and they spoke in undertones, for all was quiet below.

"You will get to Oban to-morrow?" asked the Whaup, after some profound meditation.

"I hope so," said Earlshope.

"I shall leave you then, and go back by coach or steamer."

"Has your adventure of this afternoon frightened you?"

"Faith, no! My only fright was when my cousin fainted; and I wished, when I saw that, that every guillemot that ever lived was at the bottom of the sea. But I am getting sick of idleness."

Earlshope laughed.

"You may laugh," said the Whaup; "but it is true. You have earned the right to be idle, because you are a man. For a young fellow like me, with all the world before him, it is miserable to be dawdling away time, you know."

"I quite agree with you," said his companion; "but it seems to me this discovery has come upon you rather suddenly."

"All the more reason," returned the Whaup with confidence, "that it should be acted upon forthwith. I am going to Glasgow. I shall live in lodgings with some fellows I know, and work up my studies for the next session. There is a tremendous deal of work in me, although you might not think it, and I may not see Airlie for two years."

"Why so?"

"Because then I shall be nearer twenty-one than twenty."

"And what will you do then?"

"What shall I do then? Who knows?" said the Whaup, absently.

Next morning the weather was fine, and the wind had calmed. The sea was of a troubled, dark, and shining blue; the far hills of the islands were of a soft and velvet-like brown, with here and there a tinge of red or saffron. The Caroline was soon got under weigh, and began to open out the successive headlands and bays as she stood away towards the north.

Coquette came on deck, and looked out on the sea with an involuntary shudder. Then she turned to find the Whaup regarding her with rather a serious and thoughtful look.

"Ah, you wicked boy, to make me so fearful yesterday evening!" she said.

"But you are quite well this morning?" he asked, anxiously.

"Oh, yes, I am quite well," she said; and the brightness of her face and of her soft dark eyes was sufficient evidence.

"And I got you the guillemot after all," said the Whaup, with some pride. "One of the sailors is preparing both the breast and the pinions for you, and you can wear either you like."

"For your sake, when you are away in Glasgow," she said with a smile. "I did hear what you said last night to Lord Earlshope. I could not sleep with thinking of the black water, and the wind, and the cry of the waves. And will you go away from us now altogether?"

"I must go away sooner or later," said the Whaup.

"But it is a little time until we all go back. Your father, he cannot remain long."

"But I have become restless," said the Whaup, with some impatience.

"And you are anxious to go away?" said Coquette. "It is no compliment to us; but no, I will not speak like that to you. I do think you are right to go. I will hear of you in Glasgow; I will think of you every day; and you will work hard, just as if I could see you and praise you for doing it. Then, you know, some day a long way off, it may be a rainy morning at Airlie, or perhaps even a bright day, and we shall see you come driving up in the dog-cart——"

"Just as you came driving up a few months ago. Does it not seem a long time since then?"

"Yes, a long time," said Coquette; "but I do think this is the best part of it."

The attention of everybody on deck was at this moment directed to the strange currents through which the Caroline had now to force herself—long stretches and swirls in an almost smooth sea, with here and there a boiling-up into a miniature whirlpool of the circling waters. These powerful eddies, their outline marked by streaks of foam, caught the bow of the yacht, and swung it this way or that with a force which threatened to jibe the sails; while now and again she would come to a dead stop, as though the sea were of lead. Far away on their left, between the misty hills of Jura and Scarba, lay the treacherous Corryvreckan, dreaded of fishermen; and they knew that those glassy swirls around them were but the outlying posts and pickets of the racing and channelled tides. But slowly and steadily the Caroline made head through the fierce currents, drawing away from the still breadth of Loch Shuna, and getting further into Scarba Sound, with the desolate island of Luing on the right. How strangely silent lay the long, lone bays and the solitary stretches of shore in the sunlight! There was no sign of life abroad save the hovering in mid-air of the white gannet, or the far and rapid flight of a string of wild ducks sinking down towards the south. But as they drew near the mouth of Scarba Sound—with the great stretch of the Frith of Lorn opening up and the mighty shoulders of the Mull mountains rising faint and grey in the north-west—the solitude grew less absolute. Here and there a boat became visible. They came in sight of the slate-quarries of Easdale. Then a long streak of smoke beyond told them that the great steamer from the North was coming down with her cargo of English tourists from the hills and lochs of Inverness.

They were all on deck when the steamer passed; and doubtless the people who crowded the larger vessel may have regarded the little group in the stern of the yacht as sufficiently picturesque—the tall and grey-haired lady, who had her hand inside the arm of the young girl; the elderly Minister, looking grave and dignified; Lord Earlshope, seated carelessly on one of the skylights; the Whaup waving a handkerchief in reply to several signals of the same kind.

"To-morrow morning," said the Whaup to Lady Drum, "I shall be on board that steamer, going straight down for Crinan; and you—you will be off for Skye, I suppose, or Stornoway, or Cape Wrath?"

"What do you mean?" said his father.

"Has nobody told you? I am going back to Airlie to-morrow, and on to Glasgow, to prepare for the classes. I have had enough idling."

"I am glad to hear it," said the Minister, in a tone which did not betray any strong assurance that the Whaup was to be trusted in these his new resolves.

But Coquette believed him. All the rest of that day, as the Caroline glided through the dark-blue waters—on past Ardencaple Point and Barnacaryn, under the steep crags at the mouth of Loch Feochan, and through the Sound of Kerrem, until she was nearing the calm expanse of Oban Bay—the Whaup perceived that his cousin was almost elaborately kind and attentive to him, and far more serious and thoughtful than was her wont. He himself was a trifle depressed. Having definitely stated his intentions, he would not show weakness at the last moment, and draw back from his promised word; but it was with rather a heavy heart that he went below to gather together his books and put them in order for the last time on board.

"I think I shall sleep on shore to-night," said he, when he reappeared.

"Why?" asked Coquette.

"Because I don't wish to have you all up by seven to-morrow morning. The boat leaves at eight."

"And must we not see you off, and say good-bye?"

"What's the use?" said the Whaup.

Coquette put her hand on his arm, and said, rather shyly:

"I think you would rather come with us. Why not do that? It is very sad and miserable your going all away back by yourself, and I am sorry to think of it, far more for you than if it were for myself. It is very hard lines."

The Whaup laughed in spite of his wretchedness.

"I told you ever so long ago not to say that," he said, "and you promised to remember. Never mind. It's very good of you to concern yourself about me; but I mean to go to-morrow morning. And look there!—there is Oban."

"I do hate the place!" said Coquette, petulantly.

She would scarcely look at the semicircle of white houses stretching round the bay, nor yet at the hills and the scattered villas, nor yet at the brown and desolate old castle built high on the point beyond.

"It is a town," she said, "that row of bare and ugly houses, and the hotels, and the shops. It is not fit for these Highland mountains; it shames them to look down on it—it is so—so dirty-white and shabby."

"What ails ye at the town?" said Lady Drum, who did not like to hear her favourite Oban disparaged.

"A little while ago you would have found Oban quite a grand place," said Lord Earlshope—"quite a gay land fashionable place."

"Fashionable!" said Coquette, with that slight elevation of the eyebrows and the almost imperceptible shrug to which they had all got accustomed. "Fashionable! Perhaps. It is a good promenade before the grocers' shops; and do the ladies who make the fashions live in those dirty-white houses? What is it that they say?—Qui n'est pas difficile, trouve bientôt un asile."

"You know the other French proverb?" said Lord Earlshope—"Jeune femme, pain tendre, et bois vert, mettent la maison en désert."

"That is possible," said Coquette, "but it is not fashion. You should see Biarritz, Lady Drum, with its sands, and the people, and the music, and the Bay of Biscay, and the Spanish mountains not far. Even I think our little Le Croisic better, where mamma and I lived at the Etablissement. But as for this town here, if it is more pleasant-looking than Ardrossan, I will blow me tight!"

The Whaup shrieked with laughter; and Coquette looked puzzled, knowing she had made some dreadful blunder, but not very certain what it was. Lady Drum rescued her from confusion by carrying her off to dress for dinner, and explained to her in their common state-room that she must be careful not to repeat colloquialisms which she had overheard without being quite sure of their propriety. Indeed, when the meaning of the phrase was explained to her, she laughed as much as the Whaup had done, and entered the saloon, where the gentlemen were waiting, with a conscious look on her face which considerably heightened its colour.

"It was you to blame," she said to the Whaup; "I did often hear you say that."

"Propria quæ maribus," said he, and they sat down to dinner.

It was felt to be a farewell celebration. The Whaup looked grave and determined—as if he feared he would be moved from his resolution. Coquette stole furtive glances at him; and wondered what she could give him to take with him as a keepsake. The Minister furnished him with directions about certain things to be done at Airlie; Lady Drum made him promise to come and see her when she went to Glasgow; and Lord Earlshope persuaded him to remain on board that night and go ashore in the morning.

When they went on deck after dinner, it was a beautiful clear night, with an almost full moon throwing a flood of silver across the bay from over the dusky island of Kerrera. Above the town the shoulders of the hills were touched with a pale and sombre grey; but a keener light shone along the white fronts of the houses close by the shore; while nearer at hand it touched the masts and rigging of the various craft, and threw sharp black shadows on the deck of the Caroline.

"Where is Miss Cassilis?" said Lady Drum, when she had taken her accustomed seat.

At the same moment they heard the first soft notes of the harmonium; and presently there rose into the still night the clear, and sweet, and melancholy cadence of Mendelssohn's gondola-song. The empty silence of the bay seemed to grow full of this rich and harmonious music; until one scarcely knew that the sounds were coming from the open cabin skylight which gleamed an oblong patch of yellow fire in the dusk. The night seemed to be as full of music as of moonlight; it was in the air all around; it was a part of the splendour of the sky, and scarcely to be distinguished from the lapping of the water along the side of the boat. But suddenly she changed the key, and with sharp and powerful chords struck out the proud and ringing melody of "Drumclog." The old Scotch psalm-tune stirred the Whaup, as a trumpet might stir the heart of a dragoon. He rose to his feet, and drew a long breath, as if the plaintive gondola-music had been stifling him.

"What a grand tune that Drumclog is," he said. "It means business. I dare say the old troopers sang it with their teeth set hard, and their hand on their musket-barrels. But did you ever hear it played like that?"

"It is wonderful—wonderful!" said the Minister, with his sad, grey eyes fixed upon the moonlit sea, under the shadows of the lonely island.

You should have seen the Whaup the next morning, bustling about with a determined air, and making, from time to time, a feeble effort to whistle. Coquette had been up before any one on board, and now sat, mute and pale, watching his preparations. Sometimes she turned to look towards the quay, where the vessels lay under the yellow and misty sunlight of the autumn morning.

Then the great steamer came round the point. The Whaup jumped into the gig after having shaken hands with everybody and the boat was pushed off.

"Stop a moment," said Coquette, "I do wish to go with you to the steamer."

So she, also, got into the boat; and together they went in to the quay, and got ashore. The steamer arrived, and the Whaup—still trying at times to whistle—went on board. The first bell was rung.

"Good-bye," said Coquette, holding one of his hands in both of hers. "You will write to me often, often; and when I go back to Airlie I will write to you every week, and tell you what is going on with all the people—even with Leesiebess also. And I will go to see you at Glasgow, if you will not come to Airlie before you have become a great man."

A few minutes afterwards the Whaup was waving his handkerchief to her as the steamer steamed away down the Sound of Kerrera; and Coquette stood on the quay, looking wistfully after the boat, even until the clouds of smoke had become a luminous brown in the morning sunlight.

CHAPTER XXII.

ON THE SEASHORE.

"I wish to speak to you of a great secret," said Coquette to Lord Earlshope that morning, "when we shall have the chance. It is very important."

"I shall remember to make the chance," said he, "especially as Lady Drum wants to go round and see Dunstaffnage. You must come with us."

The Minister preferred to remain in the yacht. The fact is, he was composing a sermon on the judgment that befell Jonah; and was engaged in painting a picture of the storm, with powerful colours borrowed from his experiences in Loch Crinan. He was busy with the task; for he hoped to be able to preach the sermon next day—being Sunday—to the small congregation on board. So it was that the others started without him; and drove over in a hired trap by the road which leads past the small Lochan-dhu. In time they arrived at Dunstaffnage, and made their way out to the rocks which there rise over the sea, looking across to Lismore, and Morven, and Kingairloch.

Lady Drum was a brisk and active woman for her age; but she did not care to exert herself unnecessarily. When they had gone up and examined the ruins of the old castle, when they had passed through the small wood, and reached the line of alternate rock and beach fronting the sea, she placed herself upon an elevated peak, and allowed the younger folks to scramble down to the white shingle below. There she saw them both sit down—Lord Earlshope beginning to pitch pebbles carelessly into the sea. She could hear the murmur of their talk, too; but could not distinguish what they said. Apparently there was nothing very important engaging their attention; for they did not even look at each other; and Lord Earlshope was evidently more interested in trying to hit a piece of seaweed which the tide had drifted in to the strand.

"My secret is this," said Coquette. "Do you know that papa and mamma did leave me a good deal of money?"

"I was not aware of it," said Lord Earlshope, making another effort to hit the seaweed.

"Oh, I am very rich—that is to say, not what you English would call rich, but rich in my country. Yet I cannot use the money. What good is it to me? Mamma gave me more jewellery than I need—what am I to do with my money?"

"I don't know much about ladies' expenses," said Earlshope. "But if you want to get rid of this burden of wealth, why not keep horses, or buy a theatre, or——"

"No, no, no," she said. "You do not understand. I mean I have nothing to do with my money for myself. Now, here is my cousin who goes to Glasgow to live by himself in lodgings, perhaps not very pleasant. His father is not rich. He must work hard; and your northern winters are so cold. Very well: how I am to give him money?"

"That is the problem—is it?" said Earlshope. "I might have guessed you did not wish to spend the money on yourself. Well, I don't know. I give it up. If he were a mere lad, you see, you might send him a 20l. note now and again, which most of us have found very acceptable at college. But you would insult your cousin if you sent him money bluntly like that. Besides, you would destroy the picturesqueness of his position. Our Scotch colleges are sacred to the poor student; they are not seminaries for the teaching of extravagance and good manners, like the English universities."

"Then you cannot help me?" said Coquette.

"Oh, there are a hundred indirect ways in which you could be of service to him; but you must be careful, and consult with Lady Drum, who is going to Glasgow, and will probably see him there. How fortunate you are to have no care whatever on your mind but the thought of how to do other people good! You are never anxious about yourself; you seem to be surrounded by a sort of halo of comfort and satisfaction; and annoyances that strike against the charmed circle are blunted and fall to the ground."

"That is a very nice and pretty speech," said Coquette, with a smile. "I will soon believe the English are not a barbarous nation if you make such long compliments."

"I wonder," said Lord Earlshope, looking away over the sea, and apparently almost talking to himself, "whether, if I were to tell you another secret, it would annoy you in the least. I do not think it would. How could it matter to you?"

"But what is it?" said Coquette.

"Suppose," said he, throwing another pebble at the bit of seaweed, "that I were to tell you, first, that you had no need to be alarmed; that I did not mean to frighten you with a proposal, or any nonsense of that kind; and then tell you that I had fallen in love with you? Suppose I were to do that, and tell you the history of the thing, it would not trouble you in the least, would it? Why should it, indeed? You are not responsible; you are not affected by the catastrophe; you might be curious to know more about it, even, as something to pass the time."

He spoke with the most absolute indifference; and so preoccupied was he that he did not even look at his companion. The first start of surprise had given way to a mute and apprehensive fear; her face was quite pale; and she did not know that her two hands were tightly clasped in her lap, as if to keep them from trembling.

"Such is the fact, however," he continued, just as if he were describing to her some event of yesterday, of which he had been an interested spectator. "You cannot be nearly so surprised as I am; indeed, I don't suppose you would think anything about it, unless you considered it as a misfortune which has happened to me; and then you will, I hope without laughing, give me the benefit of your sympathy. Yet I am not very wretched, you see; and you—you are no more affected by it than if you were the moon, and I, according to the Eastern saying, one of the hundred streams looking up to you. I am afraid I have been experimenting on myself, and deserve the blow that has fallen. I have been flying my kite too near the thunder-cloud; and what business had a man of my age with a kite?"

He spoke without any bitterness. It was a misfortune, and to be accepted.

"I am very sorry," she said, in a low voice.

"No!—why sorry?" he said. "I fancied I was more philosophical than I am. I think my first sentiment towards you was merely idle curiosity. I wished to see how so rare an exotic would flourish when transplanted to our bleak Scotch moors. Then you allowed me to make your acquaintance; and I believed myself filled with the most paternal solicitude about your welfare. Sometimes I had doubts—sometimes I made experiments to solve them. If I were to tell you how I fought against the certainty that I had become the victim of an affection, foolish, hopeless, unreasoning, you would, perhaps, understand why I think it better to tell you frankly so much as I have done, by way of explanation. You might also be amused, perhaps, if you cared for recondite studies. To me it has been very odd to find that, after I had dissected every sensation and analysed every scrap of emotion I have ever experienced, another being has sprung into existence by the very side of my lecture-table. That other being is also I—looking with contempt at my own anatomical experiments. And there is yet a third I—now talking to you—who looks as a spectator upon both the anatomist and the spectral being who has escaped his knife. Do you understand all this?"

A stone fell close beside them; and Coquette's heart leaped at the sound. It had been pitched down by Lady Drum as a signal that she was impatient.

"Yes, I understand it all," said Coquette, still in the same low voice, "but it is very dreadful."

"Then it is not amusing," said Lord Earlshope, offering his hand to raise her up. "I beg your pardon for boring you with a psychological conundrum. You are not vexed about my having mentioned it at all?"

"Oh, no," said Coquette; but the beach, and the sea, and the far mountains, seemed insecure and wavering; and she would fain have had Lady Drum's arm to lean upon.

"How could you be vexed, indeed, except by the dulness of the story?" said Lord Earlshope, cheerfully. "You may consider, if you like, that you never heard my confession. It cannot affect you; nor need it, indeed, in the slightest degree, affect our relations with each other. Do you agree with me?"

"Oui—yes, I mean—it will be quite the same between us as before," said Coquette.

"You will not find me torture you with the jealousies of a lover. I shall not scowl when you write a letter without showing me the address. I shall not even be angry if you enclose flowers in it. We shall be to each other, I hope, the friends we have always been; until I have quite recovered my equanimity. And you will not make me the butt of your ridicule during the process?"

"I shall always be very sorry that this has happened," said Coquette.

"Why, of course!" said her companion. "Didn't I say so? You are sorry, because it is my misfortune. In return, when you fall in love—perhaps with your handsome cousin, let us say, who means, I know, to come back crowned with laurels in order to win for himself a pretty wife somewhere down in Ayrshire—I will do my best to become sorry for you. But then, in your case, why should anybody be sorry? To fall in love is not always a misfortune—at least, I hope there are some who do not find it so."

For the first time he spoke sadly; and the expression of his face conveyed that he was thinking of some distant time. When Coquette and her companion rejoined Lady Drum, they were both unusually silent. As for the young girl, indeed, she was anxious to get once more into the waggonette, and have the horses' heads turned towards Oban. In the rumble of the wheels along the road there was not much occasion to talk; and very little indeed of the beautiful scenery, on that culm and bright autumn morning, did Coquette see as they passed over the neck of land towards Oban Bay.

CHAPTER XXIII.

COQUETTE BEGINS TO FEAR.

"Uncle," said Coquette, directly they had returned to the yacht, "when shall we go back to Airlie?"

The Minister looked up in a surprised and dazed way from his MSS., and said—

"Go back?—yes—I have been thinking of that too—for it is not fitting that one should be away from the duties to which one has been called. But you—don't you understand that it is for your sake we are here? Are you so much better? What does Lady Drum say?"

The Minister had now so far recalled himself from the sermon on Jonah that he could attentively scan his niece's face.

"Why," said he, "you are more pale—more languid—now than I have seen you for many days. Will not a little more of the sea-air make you feel strong?"

"I am not unwell," said Coquette, with the same air of restraint; "but if it will please you to go farther with the yacht, then I will go too."

So she went away to her own cabin, fearing to go on deck and meet Lord Earlshope. In their common state-room she encountered Lady Drum.

"You two were deeply occupied," she said, with a grave and kindly smile, "when ye forgathered on the beach."

"Yes," said Coquette, with an anxious haste, "I did speak to Lord Earlshope about my cousin in Glasgow."

"It must have been an interesting subject, for ye never took your eyes from watching the toe of your boot, which was peeping from under your dress; and he, I am sure, would not have noticed a man-of-war had it come round the point. Dear, dear me! I willna scold you; but to come so soon, ye know, after your poor cousin left ye——."

"No, no, no!" said Coquette, hurriedly, as she took her friend's hand in hers; "you must not talk like that. You do not know that I have just been to my uncle to ask him to go home."

Lady Drum began to look more serious. She had been bantering the young girl in the fashion that most elderly people love; but she had no idea that she was actually hitting the mark. This sudden wish on the part of Coquette to return to Airlie—what could it mean? Considerably startled, the old lady saw for the first time that there was real danger ahead; and she asked Coquette to sit down and have a talk with her, in a voice so solemn that Coquette was alarmed, and refused.

"No," she said, "I will not talk. It is nothing. You imagine more than is true. All that I wish is to leave this voyage when it pleases you and my uncle."

But Lady Drum was not to be gainsaid; she felt it to be her duty to warn Coquette. Lord Earlshope, she said, was a man whom it was necessary to understand. He had been accustomed to luxurious indolence all his days, and might drift into a position which would compromise more than himself. He had a dangerous habit of regarding himself as a study, and experimenting on himself, without reflecting that others might suffer. Then, again, he had so resolutely avoided introductions to rich and charming young ladies who had visited Castle Cawmil, that she—Lady Drum—was convinced he had some rooted aversion to the consideration of marriage—that he would never marry.

"Have ye never heard him talk about marriage, and the mistakes that young men make? He is as bitter about that as if he was an old man of sixty, or as if he had made a foolish marriage himself. Perhaps he has," she continued, with a smile; "but his success in concealing it all these years must be a credit to him."

"All that does not concern me," said Coquette, with a sort of piteous deprecation in her tone. "Why do you speak to me about Lord Earlshope's marriage? I do not care if he has been in fifty marriages."

"Will you tell me why you are suddenly anxious to go home?" said Lady Drum, bending her grave and kind eyes upon the girl.

"I have told you," said Coquette, with a touch of hauteur in her voice, as she turned abruptly away and walked out.

She stood at the foot of the companion-steps. Which way should she choose? Overhead she heard Lord Earlshope talking to the skipper, who was getting the yacht under canvas to resume the voyage. In the saloon sat her uncle, deep in the intricacies of Scotch theology. Behind her was the elderly lady from whom she had just broken away with a gesture of indignant pride. For a minute or two she remained irresolute, though the firmness of her lips showed that she was still smarting from what she had considered an unwarrantable interference. Then she went gently back to the state-room door, opened it, walked over to where Lady Drum sat, and knelt down penitently and put her head in her lap.

"I hope you are not angry or offended with me," she said, in a low voice. "I am very sorry. I would tell you what you ask, but it is not my secret, Lady Drum; I must not, indeed, tell you. It is because you are so good a friend that you ask; but—but—but it is no matter; and will you help me to go back soon to Airlie?"

"Help you?—yes, I will," said Lady Drum, in the same kindly way, although it was but natural she should feel a little hurt at having her curiosity baffled. She put her hand in a gracious and stately fashion on the young girl's head, and said: "You have a right to keep your own secrets if you choose; far be it from me to ask you to give them up. But should you want to confide in a person who has some experience o' life, and is anxious to do ye every service, you have but to come to me."

"Oh, I am sure of that," said Coquette, gratefully. "I will be as your own daughter to you."

"And about this going back," continued Lady Drum. "It would look strange to turn at this point, just after letting your cousin go home by himself. We shall have the best part o' the thing over in a couple o' days, when we get up to Skye; and then, if ye like, we can go back by the steamer."

"Two more days!" said Coquette, almost wildly, as she started to her feet—"two more days! How can I bear——"

She caught herself up and was silent.

"There is something in all this that ye keep back," said Lady Drum. "I do not blame ye; but when it suits ye to be more frank wi' me ye will no find yourself wi' a backward friend. Now we will go upon the deck and see what's to the fore."

Coquette was glad to go on deck under this safe-conduct. Yet what had she to fear? Lord Earlshope had made a certain communication to her with the obvious belief that she would treat it as a matter of no importance to herself. Was she not, according to his own account, surrounded by a halo of self-content which made her independent of the troubles which afflicted others?

"But I am not selfish," she had bitterly thought to herself as they were driving back to Oban. "Why should he think I have no more feeling than a statue or a picture? Is it that the people of this country do not understand it if you are comfortable and careless for the moment?"

When they now went on deck Lord Earlshope came forward as though he had utterly forgotten that conversation on the beach at Dunstaffnage, and placed Coquette and her companion in a position so that they could see the bay, and the houses, and the rocks of Dunolly, which they were now leaving behind. Coquette bade good-bye to Oban with but little regret. Perhaps she was chiefly thinking that in a few minutes they would come in sight of that curved indentation of the coast which would remind Lord Earlshope of what had happened there. And, indeed, as they stood away over towards the Sound of Mull, with the dark mountains of Morven in the north, and the blue waters of the Atlantic stretching far into the south, they actually came in sight of those tiny bays which they had visited in the morning.

"Do you recognise the place?" asked Lord Earlshope, carelessly, of Lady Drum.

Then he turned to Coquette and bade her admire the beautiful and soft colours of the Morven hills, where the sunlight brought out the warm tints of the rusty bracken and the heather, through the pearly grey of the mist and the heat.

"It is very lonely," said Coquette, looking wistfully round the far shores; "I do not see any sign of life among those mountains or near the sea."

"You would not enjoy a long visit to these places," said Earlshope, with a smile. "I imagine that the constant sight of the loneliness of the mountains would make you miserable. Does not the sea look sad to you? I have fancied I noticed a sense of relief on your face when we have settled down in the evening to a comfortable chat in the saloon, and have shut out for the night the water, and the solitary hills, and the sky."

She did not answer; nor could she understand how he spoke to her thus, with absolute freedom of tone and manner. Had she dreamed all that had happened under the ruined walls of Dunstaffnage? She only knew that he was looking at her with his accustomed look of mingled curiosity and interest; and that he was, as usual, telling her of his speculations as regarded herself. Or was he only assuming this ease of manner to dissipate her fears and restore their old relations? Was he only feigning indifference in order to remove her constraint?

It was not until the afternoon, when they had gone up through the Sound of Mull, and were drawing near to their anchorage in Tobermory Bay, that he had an opportunity of speaking to her alone. Lady Drum had gone below, and Coquette suddenly found herself defenceless.

"Come, Miss Cassilis," he said, "have it out with me now. You have been avoiding me all day, to punish me for my foolish disclosure of this morning. Is that the case? Did I commit a blunder? If I did, you must pardon me; I did not fancy you would have wasted a second thought on the matter. And, indeed, I cannot afford to have you vexed by my indiscretion; it is not natural for you to look vexed."

"If I am vexed," she said, looking down, and yet speaking rather warmly, "it is to hear you speak of me so. You do seem to think me incapable of caring for any one but myself; you think I should not be human; not interested in my friends, but always thinking of myself; always pleased; always with one look, like a picture. It is not true. I am grieved when my friends are grieved—I cannot be satisfied and pleased when they are in trouble."

"Surely you have no need to tell me that," he said. "When your face is clouded with cares, I know they are not your cares, and that you are far too ready to accept the burden of other people's worries. But I maintain you have no right to do so. It is your business—your duty—to be pleased, satisfied, contented; to make other people happy by looking at your happiness. It is natural to you to be happy. Why, then, should you for a moment suffer yourself to be annoyed by what I told you this morning? I see I made a mistake. You must forget it. I fancied I might talk to you about it without its troubling you more than the looking at a new vessel on the horizon would trouble you——"

"And you believe me, therefore," she said, with some indignation in her voice, "a mere doll—a baby—incapable of understanding the real human anxieties around me? Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I do not care for anything but my own pleasure; but it is not flattery to tell me so."

With that she walked away from him and rejoined Lady Drum, who had again come on deck. Earlshope had no further chance of speaking a word to her. At dinner, in the evening, Coquette was silent, and her face was downcast and troubled. When she spoke, it was to Lady Drum, towards whom she was obediently and almost piteously attentive.

CHAPTER XXIV.

TOUCHING CERTAIN PROBLEMS.

Very singular in appearance was the small congregation grouped on the deck of the Caroline, to listen to Mr. Cassilis's sermon, on that quiet Sunday morning. The Minister himself stood erect and firm, with his grey hair—for he was bare-headed—and his sunken face touched with the early sunlight. Almost at his feet sat Lady Drum and Coquette, the latter sometimes wistfully looking away over the calm sea, towards the distant shores of Loch Sunart. Lord Earlshope sat by himself still farther aft, where he could catch the outline of Coquette's face as she turned to regard the Minister. And then forward were the sailors, a small group of bronzed and sturdy men, lying about in a listless and picturesque fashion, with their scarlet caps gleaming in the sun. The background was the smooth waters of the bay, with a faint blue smoke rising into the still air from over the scattered houses of Tobermory.

Coquette had begged hard to be allowed to preface or assist the service with her harmonium; but her prayer was explicitly refused. Indeed, there might not have been much in the music to accord with the stern and matter-of-fact exhortation which the Minister had prepared. It is true that, as he warmed to his subject, he indulged in the rare license of breaking away from his preconceived plan of argument and illustration. He was dealing with things which were now before his eyes; and, as his rude and homely eloquence became more and more touched with enthusiasm, it seemed as though the inspiration of the sea had fallen on him. "What meanest thou, O sleeper!" was his text; and the cry with which the sailors awakened Jonah seemed the Minister's own cry to the men who now lived along these lonely coasts. Indeed, there was a singular and forcible realism about the address which surprised Coquette; it was so different from the long and weary sermons on doctrine to which she had of late been accustomed. The Minister had borrowed all his imagery from his recent experiences. He described the storm—the rushing of the water—the gloom of the hills—the creaking of cordage—until you could have fancied that Jonah was actually trying to make for Crinan Bay. The sailors were thoroughly aroused and interested. It was to them a thrilling and powerful narrative of something that had actually happened; something a hundred times more real and human than the vague stories and legends of the Western Isles—those faintly-coloured and beautiful things that happened so far away and so long ago that the sound of them now is like the sound of a sea-shell.

Of course there came the application, which was equally practical, if less picturesque. The fishermen, who were now lazily lying on the grassy slopes above the Tobermory cottages—satisfied with the drowsy warmth and the sensation of rest; the sailors themselves, who were busy from day to day with the mysteries of the elements, fighting with the accidents of the present world, regarding only the visible horizon around them—they were but as sleepers asleep in a storm. For outside of this visible horizon lay another and more mysterious horizon, which was daily drawing closer to them, bearing with it the doom of humanity. Hour by hour the world was being narrowed by this approaching lurk of cloud; and when at last it burst, and the lightning of death gleamed out from its sombre shadows, would there then be time to seek for the Jonah who must be thrown overboard? The old man, with his bared head and his eager manner, seemed himself a prophet sent up to denounce Nineveh and all her iniquities; and so impressive and resonant was his voice—heard over the strange calm of the sea—that more than one of the sailors had unconsciously turned to gaze far out towards the horizon, as though expecting to find there the gathering storm-clouds of which he spoke.

After this forenoon service had been finished, a dilemma occurred. The Minister had been furnished with no rules for the observance of the Sabbath on board a vessel. He had no precedents for his guidance. He could not simply request everybody to come indoors and take a book. Coquette, indeed, resolutely remained on deck.

"Well," said Lady Drum, "we are out o' doors as much as we can be, and it would be no worse, surely, if we were walking along the street yonder."

Not even Lord Earlshope had thought of continuing their voyage; that was a thing which, on the face of it, could not be permitted. But when the Minister was confronted by the difficulty which Lady Drum had discovered, he did not know well what to do. He was averse to their going ashore and walking about on the Sabbath morning, to the scandal of all decent folk; on the other hand, there was little difference between that and sitting on deck to look at the sea and the houses; while going below and immuring themselves all day long was out of the question. At last his natural good sense triumphed. He gave his consent to their leaving the boat for a certain time—in fact, until the hour for afternoon service on deck, if they chose; but he would remain on board.

"You will come ashore, will you not?" said Lord Earlshope to Coquette.

"No; I wish to remain with my uncle," said Coquette, hurriedly.

"Nonsense, nonsense!" said Lady Drum. "Would you have an old woman like me stravaiging about the shore by myself?"

"But Lord Earlshope will go with you," said Coquette, timidly.

"That does not matter. He is no companion for me; so get on your hat and come away at once."

Coquette did so, and got into the gig, determined to cling closely to Lady Drum's side. As they neared the shore, the latter remarked that the village seemed quite deserted.

"The fishermen spend their Sundays either indoors or up on the hills," said Lord Earlshope. "I believe the married ones prefer the hills."

Perhaps that haphazard allusion to marriage remained in his mind; for, after they had landed and walked some distance round the shore, until they discovered a pleasant place from which to sit and watch the seabirds over the Sound, he said, rather indolently—

"I wonder how many of those poor men have a pleasant home to return to after the fatigue and discomfort of a night out at the fishing."

As this was a problem which neither of the ladies with him could readily solve, the only answer was the plashing of the clear sea-water on the stones. Presently he said, in the same careless way—

"Do you know, Lady Drum, that physiologists say we become quite different people every seven years? Don't look surprised—I am going to explain. They say that every atom and every particle of us have in that time been used up and replaced; so that we are not the same persons we were seven years before. It is but natural to suppose that the mind changes with the body, if not so completely. You, for example, must find that you have not the same opinions on many subjects that you had seven years ago. And in the case of young people especially, they do positively and actually change the whole of their mental and physical structure in even less time than that. You follow this introductory discourse?" he added, with a laugh.

"Quite," said the elderly lady, "though I am no so sure it is a proper one for a Sabbath morning."

"You must hear me out, and with attention. The subject is profound. If I am a different person at the end of seven years, why should I be bound by promises I made when I was my former self?"

"Mercy on us!" said Lady Drum. "Is it a riddle?"

"Yes. Shall I help you to solve it by an illustration? Suppose one of those sturdy young fishermen here, when he is a mere boy of nineteen—undeveloped and quite vacant as to experience—is induced to marry some woman who has a bad nature and a hideous temper. He is a fool, of course. But seven years afterwards he is not so great a fool; indeed he has become another person, according to the physiological theory; and suppose the new fisherman hates and abhors his wife—perceives the deformity of her character—is revolted by her instead of attracted to her. Now, why should he be bound by the promise of the former fisherman? Indeed, she, also, has become another woman. Why should the old marriage bind together these two new persons? It has gone away as the mark on your finger-nail goes away: they have outgrown it."

Lady Drum began to look alarmed; and Earlshope, catching sight of her face, smiled.

"No," he said; "don't imagine me a monster. I don't want to unmarry anybody; it is only a theory. Yet why shouldn't there be a Statute of Limitations with regard to other matters than money?"

"You mean," said Lady Drum, solemnly, "that I, Margaret Ainslie Drum, wife of Sir Peter of that name, am no longer a married woman, but free to marry whom I please?"

"Precisely," said Lord Earlshope, apparently with a sincere joy that she had so thoroughly understood his argument. "You might marry me, or anybody—according to the theory, you know."

"Yes—according to the theory," remarked Lady Drum, endeavouring to repress her virtuous wrath; "of course, according to the theory."

With that he fairly burst out laughing.

"I do believe I have shocked you," he said, "in my endeavour to find out an argument why that imaginary poor fisherman should be released from his bonds. It was only a joke, you know, Lady Drum; for of course one could not unsettle all the marriages in England merely to benefit one or two people. Yet it does seem hard that when a man is a fool and marries, then ceases to be a fool and wishes to be free from his blunder, there is no hope for him. You don't seem to care to speculate about those matters, do you?" he added, carelessly, as he tried to twine two bits of grass. "Have you ever looked round the whole circle of your acquaintances, and wondered—supposing all present marriages were dissolved—what new combinations they would form in a week's time?"

"I confess," said Lady Drum, with some sarcasm, "that I have never amused myself in so ingenious a way. Pray, Lord Earlshope, what was it in Mr. Cassilis's sermon that provoked these meditations of yours?"

"Oh, they are not of recent date," said his lordship, with a fine indifference; "it is no new thing for me to discover that some of my friends would like to be unmarried. My notion of their right to do so is only a phantasy, of course, which is not to be taken au serieux."

"I should think not," said Lady Drum, with some dignity.

Indeed, it was not until they had strolled along the shore some distance on their way back to the boat that the frown left her face. Her natural good sense, however, came to her aid, and showed her that Lord Earlshope had merely been amusing himself, as was his wont, with idle fancies. He could have nothing to gain personally by advancing dangerous propositions about the dissolution of marriage-bonds. What was it to him if all the fishermen in Tobermory, or in a dozen Tobermories, remained up on the hills during the Sundays in order to get away from their wives? So the grave and handsome face of the old lady gradually recovered its urbane and benignant expression; and she even ventured to rebuke Lord Earlshope, in a good-humoured way, about the inappropriate occasion he had chosen for his lecture on physiology.

Coquette had said nothing all this time. She walked by Lady Drum's side, with something of an absent look, not paying much attention to what was said. She seemed relieved to get into the gig again; so that Lady Drum expressed a hope that her duties of companion had not been irksome to her.

"Oh, no!" she said; "I am ready to go with you whenever you please."

But later on in the day they had another quiet chat to themselves, and Coquette became more confidential.

"I do not understand it; there is something wrong in it, surely," she said, with a thoughtful look in her eyes, "when a young man like Lord Earlshope seems to have nothing more in the world to do—to have lost interest in everything—and at times to be gloomy and as if he were angry with the world. Have you not noticed it, Lady Drum? Have you not seen it in his face when he is talking idly? And then he says something in a bitter way, and laughs; and it is not pleasant to hear. Why, he has lost interest in everything! Why does he spend his time at home, reading books, and anxious to avoid seeing people?"

Lady Drum regarded her with astonishment.

"Well, well," she said; "who would have thought that those dreaming dark eyes of yours were studying people so accurately, and that beneath that knot of ribbon in your wild hair the oddest notions were being formed? And what concern have ye wi' Lord Earlshope's idle habits, and his restlessness and dissatisfaction?"

"I?" said Coquette, calmly. "It is not my concern; but it is sad to see a man whose existence is wasted—who has no longer any object in it."

"He enjoys life like other folk," said Lady Drum.

"He does not enjoy his life," said Coquette, with decision. "He is very polite, and does not intrude his troubles on any one. You might think he passed the time pleasantly—that he was content with his idleness. I do not believe it—no, I do believe there is not a more wretched man alive."

Lady Drum elevated her eyebrows. Instead of having one problem in humanity before her, she had now two. And why had this young lady taken so pathetic an interest in Lord Earlshope's wretchedness?